Untitled
by Just Lovely
Summary: If and when. Rated M for implicit suggestive themes.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **original idea is mine, characters mentioned/referred to are not

**Author's Note:** Merry Christmas! It's been a while, hasn't it? I'm not back permanently. It's honestly been some time since I've been on but all the story/author alerts/favourites I've received throughout my hiatus have brought me back to writing. Though this piece is quite different from the rest of my works, I hope you take and enjoy it as a (late) Christmas present!

**Warning:** This piece is rated M for mature content, as in some implicit suggestive themes (nothing explicit). Read at your own discretion.

_Untitled_

**By: _Just Lovely._**

You're used to it and you wonder if you really should be. The silence helps. Most times with creation and imagination and writing – it doesn't distract. While other times it perpetuates the solitude and loneliness that has taken up residence in your apartment, when your words hang in the air unanswered by the person to whom they're directed at.

But he's living his dream job and you really shouldn't feel the way that you do. You should commend him, give support, be proud. But it's hard and you're selfish and it's not working no matter how much you try.

You huff, frustrated, and scrape your chair back; standing up and flexing cramped fingers.

It takes a while to get to the couch that's typically five steps away. Feet toeing around a snapback there, a roll of medical tape here, sheets of music in a messy pile at the base of the couch, lyric sheets stuffed haphazardly under the shelving of the coffee table. His messes remind you that he's still around and a part of you can't bear to clean up and erase them.

The couch, usually seating two now usually seats one, and you try to ignore that new pattern by settling onto the cushions, stretching your limbs to fill up the space as if there's more than one of you. Something brushes against your arm and you pull it out from under you. It's his sweater and you're folding it over the back of the couch before you catch a whiff of his lingering scent and feel that pang in your heart that mumbles I miss you.

Waning sunlight streams in through half closed curtains. It's evening and the silence has become too insufferable for you to properly concentrate and work on your manuscript. A sigh slips past your lips and your arm drops over your eyes to block the light.

It's 9:37 pm by the time you get up. The sun has long since set, taking with it the light and warmth of the day, leaving you with nothing but darkness and a black night clutched in your curled hands.

The window shakes in the sill; tonight's wind is strong and ruthless. You can hear the rustling from the trees lining the perimeter of the apartment complex despite the hum of the city. It's cold but you can't bring yourself to close the windows because the numbness of your body makes ending the day alone easier than starting it was.

There's a sound at the door – the distinct sound of a key in the lock, the knob being turned. You peer over the back of the couch at the doorway before slowly getting to your feet.

He's shuffling around in the entryway, dropping his bag to the floor, and slipping his shoes off. He walks to the kitchen, pauses, squints in the darkness at you.

"Hey…what are you doing in the dark?" He asks. You shrug in response but he probably doesn't see it because he continues talking. "Were you sleeping?" He slaps a hand over the kitchen light switch, brightness instantly flooding into the apartment.

Your eyes narrow a little, adjusting. "No, not really, I was just laying down for a bit."

He's nodding as his brow furrows and his lips press together in a thin line. You know it's not in response to your words because he isn't even looking at you as he usually would be.

"Are you hungry?" It's a simple question and you expect him to say yes because he always is but he shakes his head and grabs a bottle of water from the fridge instead.

You lean against the back of the couch, watching him, rubbing absently at your arms to create some heat.

He looks up at you before capping the bottle. There's a faint spark of recognition in his eyes. "Did you leave the windows open again? You're going to get sick with this bad habit of yours." He scolds lightly, shaking his head at you, a faint smile peeking at the corners of his lips.

He walks over to the windows, pulling each of them shut before circling around the couch to you. His hands settle on your collar, where your shirt leaves your skin exposed, to curl around the base of your neck. "You're freezing," he says before pressing a hand to your cheek.

"No, I'm okay." You reassure him, pulling away slightly and he only laughs, but the sound seems distant to you.

"Go take a hot shower or you're going to turn into an icicle or something." He jokes, pushing you lightly toward the bathroom.

You turn to look questioningly at him. His tone lacks his usual mix of mischief and sarcasm, sounding flat to your ears. You're reaching up to press your lips at the corner of his, where his dimples usually are, in the usual welcome home kiss when he urges you on with a minute nudge to your waist, and you catch that odd look in his eyes again, like he doesn't really see you. You stumble a bit but he doesn't seem to notice, already turning away with his brows furrowed and his forehead seemingly permanently creased.

Your imaginative mind runs wild with reasons for his behaviour as you turn the water on. You want to ask him what's wrong but you should know better than to pry, but not prying means not knowing which means you can only assume the worst. You turn the knob to scalding hot and feel your skin go numb, hoping the heat will wipe the worries from our mind.

The bathroom is filled with steam when you finally turn the shower off and it's when you're pulling the shower curtain to the side that you hear the door open and you instinctively snap it back into place.

There's silence and you poke your head around the curtain, peering into the steam. "What are you doing?"

He says nothing and you see him come closer. Your fingers grip around the curtain and bring it closer to your body. "I'm almost done. I'll just be a few more minutes."

You expect him to listen and wait, teasing you about how he's already seen it all anyway. But he shakes his head and you can see no hint of a playful grin on his lips as the fingers of one hand reach for the curtain. His face is eerily calm, flat, and that distant look is back on his face – it worries you.

"Don't you dare." You say when his fingers curl around the curtain. His eyes flash and he gives it a slight tug but you pull it back to cover you.

"You either let me in or I'm going to pull the entire thing off." He murmurs quietly. His voice is monotone, not that usual pitched low tone he uses when he's being seductive and you're purposely being insufferably resistant.

He feels unfamiliar to you and you can feel your heart beat loudly in your ears. You try to calm your breath and respond with your usual irritated quip had he actually been teasing you. "You wouldn't. You know how hard it was getting the thing on the rod."

He merely looks at you, brow raised, and experimentally yanks down until one of the curtain rings snap. Your grip doesn't slacken though, and you feel your skin bristle.

He's only trying to annoy me, you think to yourself. It's only a prank, you reason. Another snap, followed by another and you feel yourself holding the curtain up more than it is holding itself up.

You look up at him, catch the corner of his gaze and he glances up at the shower rod. Five rings left. He makes a move to yank the curtain again but you're sliding it slowly back to allow him in, curling your body behind it as you go until you're standing directly under the showerhead, right where the water doesn't spray.

He steps in, feet bare but still fully clothed. His t-shirt hangs a little too loose for your liking, his jeans hanging a little too low on his hips. The picture looks odd, unhealthy, and it bothers you.

He presses a towel gently to your curtain clad form with one hand while the other reaches behind you to turn on the water. You can tell it's ice cold when he flinches against the onslaught, his skin rapidly resembling goose flesh. Your hands instinctively move to adjust the temperature but his hand doesn't budge from the knob.

You open your mouth to say something, scold him maybe, but he looks up at you through soaked bangs and sees you, really _sees_ you and you pause. You drop the curtain, it's nothing he hasn't already seen anyway, and hold up the towel with both hands, stepping forward as if to blanket him from the cold water, with your body or the towel you're not sure. But he shakes his head and both of his hands close over the top of it to drape it over your naked shoulders, holding it in place when you try to shake it off.

"What is going on with you?" you whisper.

He doesn't answer you but sighs softly, eyes closing briefly, when your hands reach around the towel to grasp his cold, trembling ones.

"What's wrong?" You try again, giving his hands a gentle squeeze.

He takes a step forward until his head is hovering above you in that space where the water doesn't reach, the cold water still beading down his back. His forehead presses down against yours and you flinch a little at the cold contact.

His eyes are still distant but he's looking right at you, seeing you, when he answers so quietly that you have to lean forward to catch it all. "I don't know." He sounds different, defeated, and you're not used to this side of him.

His lips are tinged a little blue and he's shivering when you finally get him out of the shower. You turn away when he obeys your instructions to strip down, occupying yourself with wrapping a towel around your body. It's a brief brush of his fingers on your shoulder that tells you to turn back around and you look at him wearing warm dry clothes with a few large towels wrapped around his shoulders to ease the chills wracking his body.

This is new territory for you. It has always been him comforting you with soft caresses and gentle strokes of his fingers against your cheek, lips pressed softly on your temple, murmuring words of comfort. But now he's the lost one, no teasing tumbling from his lips or loud laughter in your ears – he's just a quiet boy.

"Are you warm enough?"

He nods, shifts to lean against the bathroom counter and looks at you with something that you can't decipher.

Your hands twist together as you wait for him to start.

"Are you cold?"

You look up from your hands at his voice, already shaking your head. But he's frowning and shrugging off a towel anyway, taking a few short strides before draping it around you. He doesn't touch you, not really. And he's leaving too much space between you two that would normally be considerably non-existent.

"Why aren't you touching me?" Your question sounds needy even to yourself but he's as much a creature of habit as you are, and yet his hands are only brief, a fading whisper if felt at all.

He looks pained, an emotion you've only ever seen once before. "I'm trying not to," he says finally.

You can only think of the worst and dread his response when you ask him why.

"I don't want it to be harder when I leave."

You narrow your eyes, force your breathing to be even and your heart to stop racing – he was being too vague. "Leave…?"

His voice is soft, apologetic. "I'm going to need to leave the country a lot soon."

For your job, you mentally add in when he conveniently leaves it out. You should feel touched that he's sorry when he knows how you feel when he constantly prioritizes work over you, but all you feel is annoyance when he toes the topic carefully as if you don't understand how important his job is to him.

"I'm not going to fall to pieces if you're not here." You say flatly and you really hope you don't because you can easily tell that a lot translates to it'll-seem-like-I-don't-live-here-anymore.

"But I'm afraid I will." He says and he's being serious, there's no smile tugging at his lips, no teasing glint in his eyes.

"I will not keep you fro-"

"I don't want this job. I don't want to do this anymore."

You stare at him, and then your eyes narrow and you're standing in front of him, using both hands to shove him back. "Don't lie to me." You hiss, "You've been dreaming about this since you were a kid. Your parents didn't want this for you but you still did it. You've been working at it for years, and now you want to give it up?"

You're seething and his eyes are wide, surprised but not really. You've always voiced your concerns for him but never held him back from going forward with what he had to do or what he wanted to do, the two always blurred together anyway.

"I would." _For you_. He doesn't say it but you can see it in his eyes, and he shouldn't be willing to do something so drastic, so life changing, for you.

"But I wouldn't want you to. I'd want you to be happy but if you're not then this isn't going to work." You reply, gesturing at the space between the two of you. His eyes follow your gesture, staring at the space, and his jaw clenches.

"Then what about you?"

"I'll survive." You say, shrugging and turning away, bothered by the intensity of his gaze.

His hand is gentle but firm when it grasps your chin to look back at him. "You don't know that. You don't know." His forehead presses against yours, and he breathes the words out like a plea, as if he would promise to pursue something else just to stay with you.

Your eyes flutter to a close when his hands cup your face, pleading, but you don't relent. "Then we'll try until it works." You feel him stiffen and open your eyes to meet his. "You can't give up without trying. I'm not going to let you do that." You're surprised at your own words, shocked that you would ever say something that you're not even sure you want.

"And if it doesn't work?"

"We change." You answer simply and you hope he doesn't ask how because you don't know the answer to that question.

"I'm going to miss you." He murmurs into your shoulder and it's so simple, so easy, to brush things away until you're forced to confront them. He submits to the gentle promise of your words, like you knew he would because he's the optimist in your relationship at the end of the day.

"More than you do now?" You joke half-heartedly.

"That and more than I miss touching you." He corrects you, curling his hand around the back of your neck to gently bump your forehead to his. His eyes are clear, that distant look is gone, replaced by the mischievous gleam that is so characteristic of him.

"Well that's good to hear." You say, pulling away from his reaching hands and laughing as his eyes narrow. "Hands off. Didn't you say you needed to practice not touching me?"

He frowns. "Well I take the words back."

"Too late! Besides, I need to dress and you need to get out and get warm."

"I won't look!" He says, grinning as he glances over his shoulder at you as you nudge him toward the door. "Besides, it's nothing I haven't seen before."

Your face feels hot and he's chuckling at you as you close the door in his face but then you're smiling because this is how you want to always remember him as.

* * *

><p><strong>End Note: <strong>Hmmmm, not entirely sure what to say. Second person with no character distinction and some suggestive themes. I've come across a few pieces (not on ff. net) of the second person with no character distinction style so I've tried my hand at it. So far, the style is fun and easy to write with. There isn't exactly a plot to this 4-part piece, but rather little life lessons interwoven through that are hopefully detectable. If not, the fault is entirely mine :)

Important: I've posted this piece as a present and an update on myself for some of you readers who have contacted me about possible future updates. However, this particular style that I've utilized doesn't directly reference anything related to the fandom, and therefore, it is highly likely that I will be taking this piece down after some time. I may be posting it on other media as well (livejournal, tumblr). If so I will post a blank chapter to this piece before taking it down to notify you all.

To note: This is arranged to read as a sort of prequel to the later chapters.

Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **original idea is mine, characters mentioned/referred to are not

**Warning:** This piece is rated M for mature content, as in some implicit suggestive themes (nothing explicit). Read at your own discretion.

_Untitled_

**By: _Just Lovely._**

He expects the apartment to be dark when he finally comes home. Expects for it to smell like pine and the air to be filled with the dust of decorations coming out of a long year of storage. He assumes it'll be warm, what with the daylong snowstorm.

He opens the door and feels his skin rise with goose bumps. The hair at the back of his neck stands on end and he sees his breath form in front of him as he sighs. He shuts the door quietly behind him, slips off his boots, casting coat and bag to the floor and tries to manoeuvre around the puddles of melting snow in the entryway toward the kitchen.

The stove light casts a warm glow from the kitchen corner and he tiptoes toward it. There's a small pot of some kind of sauce, raspberry he thinks, sitting at the edge, and a little saucepan crusted with melted chocolate rests at the back of the stove. There are spots of chocolate forming a trail from the stove to the counter that have long since dried. Brownies, previously set out to cool, are on racks on the countertop, chocolate hanging down like icicles on the metal bars. Sugar cookies, cut into holiday shapes and sprinkled in green and red, are arranged into a wobbly Christmas tree atop a large platter.

He's tempted to steal one but fear of toppling the arrangement, or rather facing your wrath, persuades him otherwise. He switches the stove light off and pads toward the adjoined living room.

The apartment is minimally furnished; a coffee table placed before the standard three-seated couch facing the television, a full bookshelf and a desk flank a corner of the room while a grand piano fills the other.

The large pine tree is arranged between the coffee table and the bookshelf-desk corner instead of in his preferred space by the piano. A decision that led to an argument that he ultimately lost because you couldn't bear for his piano to risk ruin by sticky pine needles and, on the off chance of clumsy fingers, falling glass ornaments. But redirecting potential damage means that your workspace is placed at risk – rough notes and manuscripts in the making that you slaved over for the better part of the almost four years since you moved in with him.

The lights twined in the tree's branches flicker between colours, casting a soft glow over the room. It isn't until you moan and shift to turn away from a particular strong gust of wind creeping in from the open window that he sees you. He watches you shiver and press deeper into the sofa cushion, your hands reaching out and searching for an invisible blanket. He shakes his head, cold and numb fingers deftly pulling the window down.

He still doesn't understand your fascination with snowstorms. He'd chuckle and mimic you when you stick out your tongue to catch a snowflake during a soft snowfall with your head out an open window but never when the thrashing wind burns your nose red, slaps your cheeks numb and pricks your eyes until they freeze shut. And even when he tells you again, and again, and again, not to open the window to feel the storm but to watch it warm and safe behind closed glass panes, you never listen.

He shuffles over to you, blowing on his hands, nearly tripping on the book that had fallen from your slackened grip. Korean, he thinks after picking it up and glancing at the cover – research, he assumes when he puts it on the coffee table next to the English to Korean dictionary already there.

He crouches down beside the couch, hand smoothing over your cheek, watching as you instinctively curl toward the warmth, your hands pressing his closer to your chilled skin as you sigh, finally appeased. He smiles, pats your cheek once before removing his hand and placing it at your back, his other shifting below your legs. It's not until his hands graze the soft cotton of the blanket you lay on, set there for the purpose of accidental naps, that his smile turns into a grin.

"So silly," he murmurs and carefully hoists you up, your head falling against his chest and your hands grasping his shirt.

He walks to the bedroom and sets your legs down on the bed first, pulling the covers back before easing you down under them. Blanket pulled up to your chin, hair out of your face, and it's habit when you shift onto your side and face the inside of the bed, facing him whether he's there or not.

He brushes your hair back before picking himself up and trudging to the bathroom, a hot shower already in mind.

He sees you standing in front of the dresser and brushing your hair when he comes out, towel over wet hair.

"Shouldn't you be asleep?" He asks, half amused and not surprised at all that you had forgone sleep to stick to routine.

"Forgot to brush my hair," he hears you mumble as you quickly pull the brush through the last few strands.

He hums in response, rubbing the towel around his hair before draping it around his shoulders. He smiles when he catches your eye in the mirror, he had always liked your hair down.

"Long night," you start but don't finish, and he already knows it's not a question but more of a statement that he'd be tactless to counter at a time when you were awake and not asleep like you were supposed to be.

He hums again, watches as your eyes narrow fractionally before you turn around to face him.

"Did you drink?"

It's a loaded question. And he knows that response or no response will garner the same result.

He stays still when you walk up to him, tiptoeing until your nose grazes his jaw. He stiffens just slightly but you're already stepping back, nose wrinkled.

"You did." He doesn't hear the usual disapproval in your tone and he's a little surprised at that.

He smiles sheepishly, catching your hand. "I brushed really well though."

You roll your eyes. "I'm sure you did," you reply, head turned toward the clock. "Are you hungry?"

He follows your gaze. He had eaten a bit, the usual fast food that comes with liquor, laughter and having a good time, but you probably wouldn't have any of that.

"Come on, I'll make something quick." You say, pulling a little, probably expecting him to follow.

He doesn't and tugs you back, his hands landing on your waist as he leans down until he's eye level with you. The tip of his nose touches yours, his breath fanning over your lips.

Your eyes are innocently wide, "You don't want it?"

He narrows his eyes at you, lips twitching. It isn't until he pulls you closer that you get the hint, or succumb to habit, and you kiss the side of his mouth just where his dimples gleam like you always do.

"Welcome home."

He smiles, and leads you out. "Of course I want your cooking, there'd be something wrong with me if I didn't."

He sits at the breakfast bar and watches you at the stove, moving around the half-finished parts of your desserts.

It's actually breakfast that you hand to him – eggs, sausages and bread, no bacon because he doesn't like salty foods. He opens his mouth to say something about you being too lazy to cook something better, more extravagant, for him but doesn't get too far before catching your pointed look at the clock. 3:38 am.

"I was going to say thanks," he replies before digging in, he doesn't need to look at you to know that you don't believe him.

"So, you're leaving tomorrow?" Routine dictates so – a night out to loosen up before getting back into the grit of his dream job.

He looks up at you, you standing in front of him with hands clasped on the counter, lips in a firm line. He swallows the food in his mouth, "Just for a little while."

"Is it a tight schedule?"

He slides his phone to you, his schedule lighting up the screen. "It's not so bad," he replies before forking a mouthful.

He watches your fingers slide against the screen, eyes focused on every box of the schedule, from hour to activity.

"I guess you'll be sleeping in the car a lot."

He shrugs, pushing the empty plate away. "Just the usual." He gets up and places the dirty dishes into the sink before coming back to you; chin perching on your shoulder as his arms wind around you.

"I won't be gone long," he murmurs, taking the phone from your grip and turning the screen off.

You're nodding half-heartedly and he notices. "Not for long, there and back." He says, kissing your cheek briefly before letting you go in favour of your hand as he leads you back to bed.

Blanket up to your chin, hair brushed from your face and in the dark you seek him. His eyes find you easily; his hand cups your cheek, thumb smoothing over your skin.

Your eyes fall shut. "What time are you going?" You whisper.

"In a few hours." He murmurs, "Go to sleep."

And with his gentle ministrations and warmth, his eyes looking at you adoringly, you eventually do.

* * *

><p>Important: I've posted this piece as a present and an update on myself for some of you readers who have contacted me about possible future updates. However, this particular style that I've utilized doesn't directly reference anything related to the fandom, and therefore, it is highly likely that I will be taking this piece down after some time. I may be posting it on other media as well (livejournal, tumblr). If so I will post a blank chapter to this piece before taking it down to notify you all.<p>

Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **original idea is mine, characters mentioned/referred to are not

**Warning:** This piece is rated M for mature content, as in some implicit suggestive themes (nothing explicit). Read at your own discretion.

_Untitled_

**By: _Just Lovely._**

You wake up to beeping. Instinctively, you reach out to the bedside table, half-surprised that the sound is coming from your side of the bed and not the other. You turn off the alarm and peer at the display. 6:42 am.

Your hand lags to the blanket and with one fluid motion, flips it off your body. As inviting as delving under the warm covers is, you're too awake from the sudden cold to be tempted. You're swinging your legs to the floor and getting up before a warm hand wraps around your wrist and tugs you back.

Face half covered by your pillow, you feel the blanket fall over your body up to your chin, a hand settling at the dip of your waist under the covers.

"What are you still doing here? Aren't you supposed to be gone by now?" You manage after getting over the surprise and pushing yourself up a little to peer at the man beside you. His hand squeezes your waist, as if preparing to force you to stay in bed.

He ignores your questions and gives his own, not bothering to open his eyes to look at you. "Where are you going? It's Christmas day." His voice is heavy with sleep and you miss these mornings, where you don't wake up to a bed already half empty, sheets no longer warm.

"To work." You answer, pushing yourself up and swatting his restraining hand away.

His forehead creases, eyes tightly shutting before blinking open. He looks at you with half-lidded eyes, "Why? You never have anything that needs to be done during the holidays."

You shrug, rubbing the sleepiness from your eyes. "You're usually here during the holidays." You murmur, voice quiet.

He looks at you before a smile takes form on his lips. "Well it's a good thing that I'll be staying here for a while, then."

He reaches a hand out for you and you move away from it, eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about? You have to go today, remember? Or did you forget after all that drinking?"

He scoffs, "How can I forget anything after one drink?" His hand reaches again and successfully brings you closer while you're pondering his words.

One drink… which means he wasn't doing the routine loosening up before a big trip. "So then what were you doing all night?" You can feel something boil under your skin, and as if sensing your suspicion transforming into irritation, his hand turns to steel on your hip.

"Killing time. Playing pool with the guys while they got drunk on habit." He replies, wide awake and watching you with an amused mischievous grin that only fuels your annoyance.

"What about your schedule?"

"For the new year." He singsongs and your leg twitches to kick him. His grin only widens when his hand stops your movement.

"So you lied to me." You state. You see him open his mouth and know that he's going to try to sugar coat it and rephrase it to something a little less harsh. You punch his arm before he gets the chance, feeling a little less angered when he winces.

He retracts his restraining hand from your hip to rub against the bruise you probably left. "It was supposed to be a surprise." You raise your eyebrows at the remark and he hurries to clarify. "You weren't supposed to get up so early so I could make you breakfast in bed." He huffs and his eyes search for your reaction.

"Because lying was really required for that plan."

Your response probably isn't what he was hoping for and he sheepishly scratches the back of his head. "Well… probably not but it's not like it really hurt anyone." He's said the wrong thing and you see him realize it when his eyes widen and mouth opens to correct himself.

But it's too late. Your fist darts out from under the covers and he's wincing again while you turn to get up.

"I didn't mean it like that!" He reaches forward, grips your wrist and pulls you back down.

You're going to scream at him, you can feel it coming over you but you clench your jaw and breathe in through your nose. You always say the wrong things when you're mad.

You glare at him and roll over to give him your back. Your body tenses, awaiting his touch that is sure to come. He always relies more on his actions than words to communicate. It doesn't come and you assume he's realizing that now is probably not the time for actions, especially those that would try to remedy your temper with seductive touches and only lead to the opposite result. You're a master of words and he's going to need to do better.

"I really didn't." He murmurs, shifting, hesitating, thinking. "It was just a ploy so you would be really surprised and wouldn't suspect anything. I'm sorry." A pause. "It's not like I don't know that you're lonely when I'm gone, that you don't like it and that it bothers you as much as it bothers me. But I figured, I assumed – I made an ass out of you and me," You can practically see the bitter upturn of his lips. "That you'd feel better," He continues, "happier when you realized that I wasn't going anywhere today. That it'd be like I was coming home except double that happiness. And…"

You hear him sigh and there's rustling on the bed before you feel his fingers tapping lightly on your arm. "I'm sorry that I made you needlessly worry and sombre. I'm sorry that I didn't know better. I'm sorry that I'm probably butchering this apology with words and making it a lot worse."

You wonder, sometimes, if this would have happened had you not been adamant about you both discussing living together – that you two would be sometimes apart rather than together for long periods of time. The knowing you had insisted on seemed to only water the seed of anxiety inside you. Even more so, separation meant less time to know each other, to get the quirks and pins right instead of always mixing them up. Would he have known that lying was hardly ever the way to get to your heart? You wouldn't know. But he did know when to touch and when not to, understanding the line between seduction and comfort when you're stressed and frustrated with your work. And he knows when to show his weakness, to talk instead of act, because his words are always more raw than his actions.

It's after a moment with his antsy fingers on your arm that you reply. "Are you going to lie again?"

His fingers stop and you hear his breathing – in and out, in and out. "Only after I think about it and it makes sense to."

You give a noncommittal nod.

"Does that mean you're not mad at me anymore?" He asks. His fingers are suddenly energetic, light and playful as they skitter up and down your arm before finally stopping at your waist.

You don't answer and you feel his breath at the back of your neck before you find his arm draped over your waist, fingers twining with yours. "Really? Not anymore?" He presses a kiss to the curve of your shoulder and you feel his smile.

And then his warmth is gone, and his hand tugs yours in time with his retreat back to his side of the bed. You stare up at the ceiling, and in your peripheral vision you see him look back at you, head pillowed on an arm.

"I'm really sorry." He murmurs, bringing your twined fingers to his lips. _I'm sorry_. _I'm sorry_.

"Okay." You say finally, the words coming out as soft as feathers, as you turn toward him.

He smiles lightly, whispers "Okay," over your knuckles before tugging you close and pulling the covers up to your chin and smoothing your hair from your face.

He hesitates and it's your hand that puts his palm against your cheek, his thumb that moves in rhythmic patterns on your skin, and his voice you hear when you see your reflection in his warm eyes.

"Thank you."

* * *

><p>Important: I've posted this piece as a present and an update on myself for some of you readers who have contacted me about possible future updates. However, this particular style that I've utilized doesn't directly reference anything related to the fandom, and therefore, it is highly likely that I will be taking this piece down after some time. I may be posting it on other media as well (livejournal, tumblr). If so I will post a blank chapter to this piece before taking it down to notify you all.<p>

Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **original idea is mine, characters mentioned/referred to are not

**Warning:** This piece is rated M for mature content, as in some implicit suggestive themes (nothing explicit). Read at your own discretion.

_Untitled_

**By: _Just Lovely._**

He finds it hard to stop. The more words that tumble from his lips, the brighter your eyes become, your laughter louder and happier, different from what he remembers. It's when he pauses in-between ramblings about his most recent trip that he notices the time.

"Are you hungry?"

You catch his eyes, yours glassy with tears from too much laughter. "A little," you admit, shifting under the covers, "but not really."

"That still means you're hungry," he retorts, slipping out from the covers and patting them down to keep in the warmth for you. He pins you with a look, "It's cold, so stay under there. I'll be right back."

He's halfway out the room when he hears the flip of blankets and your feet touch down on the wooden floors. He's turned to face you by the time you reach him, body curled inward to keep in the warmth.

He opens his mouth to tell you off, his arms falling on your shoulders to guide you back to bed but you shrug him off. "I don't want to clean the sheets later," you say, folding your arms across your chest when he steps to block the doorway.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. "I'm the one cooking breakfast so I'll clean up." He reasons but you're shaking your head.

"You're supposed to be keeping me happy, remember?"

It's said lightly but he winces a little anyway before obliging. "After you, your highness," he steps back while sweeping a hand toward the doorway, and can't help but release a relieved sigh when a smile pokes at the corner of your lips.

"So what's with all the desserts?" he asks, brushing stray crumbs off the stove before turning the element on.

He sees you shrug from your seat at the breakfast bar as he nudges the fridge door closed with a hip, a carton of eggs in one hand with green onions, ham, mushrooms and onions tucked under both arms. He sets the ingredients down, pouring oil into the heating pan on the oven.

"You don't want them? I'm sure the neighbours would then."

He turns at your words. An egg, poised to be cracked, is frozen in his hand. "You made them for me?"

You shrug again, holding his wide-eyed stare. "You said you liked sugar cookies and brownies."

"I said I liked that lingerie set in the store last week but you didn't buy it." He pauses, his brows rising. "Unless, you did…?" His head tilts, eyeing you, mischief curling at the ends of his grin.

Your eyes narrow, "No, I didn't." You grind out, "God, I knew I was going to regret doing anything for you."

"Don't say that!" He whines, skipping over to the breakfast bar and leaning over it, closer and closer until the tip of his nose touches yours. "Promise."

He follows you as you pull away from the close contact, nose to nose. Your hands retreat from the countertop and his hand, the one not holding the egg, catches your wrist. "Promise me."

"Why, you're not being very appreciative of my thoughtfulness right now." You mutter, glowering at him.

"I was kidding about the lingerie set, I knew _you_ weren't going to buy it. But I am thankful for the desserts, really." He replies, tugging at your wrist. "So, promise?"

You sigh, and he moves his nose back and forth against yours in an eskimo kiss at your defeat. "What am I even promising?"

"Not to regret doing things for me, of course!"

"I'm probably going to regret this then."

"Hey!" He cuts in, the hand holding the egg pressing against his chest in fake offense. He suddenly pauses, his brow furrows and his nose sniffs the air.

"Just like I'm regretting letting you cook!" You yell, eyes widening at the sight behind him. "It's burning!"

He runs toward the stove, snapping the burner off and moving the smoking pan away from the element. "Don't freak, it wasn't that hot so there's not a lot of smoke. Besides, the fire alarm didn't go off." He says, looking back at you and laughing sheepishly when he catches sight of your this-is-_so_-not-funny face.

While enduring your scolding of his carelessness and how he should pay attention when he's working with fire and your exasperated how-am-I-going-to-live rant followed by the are-you-even-listening spiel, he finally places a perfectly made omelette in front of you and quiets your temper with a kiss on your cheek and a happily said "Enjoy!".

"Turned out well right?" His voice is smug as he glances over at you.

You grumble a reply but he knows you don't really mean it, especially when you're tapping an excited tempo with your free hand onto his own sitting on the counter beside you as you eat.

He can't help but smile because you always hide, hide your extreme delight at his homecomings with indifference or your concern for his health with exasperation – as if you could ever keep anything from him though. He takes it all in stride, pretends not to notice how your arms tighten around him when he hugs you after a long time away or how your voice goes soft and falters when you ask if he's slept enough.

"Admit it, even if I did heat the oil for a little too long, it's still the best omelette you've ever had." He jokes, nudging you. He turns a blind eye sometimes but he thinks it's only healthy when you're brought down a little and made to show some part of yourself.

"You didn't heat it, you burned it." You clarify flatly.

"Same difference," he says, shrugging.

You scoff, "Yeah, just like how barely edible is synonymous with mouth-watering."

"Don't lie to me, you cleaned the entire plate of the breakfast I made."

Your lips press together in a line, and he watches with odd fascination as you struggle with yourself to say a few measly meaningful words.

He taps your hand with light fingers. "I'm waiting~."

It's bait, but he knows you're too stubborn to give up and too unwilling to not say the words just to prove that you don't have to.

"I…" You stop and he looks at you, urging you on. "I enjoyed it…"

"And?" His grin is wide, teeth showing.

You're halfway through and he knows you're going to turn away, mumble the rest to the floor and be done with it all but his hand is faster, a warm and gentle resistance against your habitual urge to turn.

"And…" You sigh, stare at him and continue, "It was the best omelette I've had."

"Ever," he adds, chuckling when you swat his hand away only to have him duck back closer, lips soft and lingering on yours. "Thank you," he murmurs, sweet, loving, understanding.

You shake your head when he pulls back, patting your cheeks with the back of your hands as if it would ward off the subtle pink to your skin. He laughs at you, and hops off the stool to clean the dishes.

He gives you his back, some time to calm yourself down. And perhaps too much time, he thinks when you pose a question that has his movements stiffening like moving through quick sand.

"You said you knew that _I _wouldn't buy that lingerie set, like you were just gauging my reaction." You say slowly. He hears your steps come closer, your voice a little louder. "That better not mean that _you_ bought them for me."

Your gaze on him is white hot and he averts his eyes – to the plate in his hands, the gleaming rush of water, the drying dishes.

He feels your finger jab his side, and he winces slightly. "Did you?"

It's a loaded question. And he knows that response or no response will garner the same result.

"You'll have to see for yourself tonight when we open presents?" He offers weakly, shutting his eyes to steel himself against your approaching hand.

Your finger is gentle, joking, as you poke his cheek to punctuate each of your words. "I thought I said no to the lingerie."

He's relieved when he hears your light-hearted tone. He opens his eyes and looks at you, lips curling. "You say no to a lot of things. So we'll see tonight." His voice is pitched low, his eyes gleaming, flashing at you.

You take a step back from his stare and he only grins, hands warm and wet as they tug you closer. You open your mouth, probably to protest he thinks, to demand what he means by _that_, but then his mouth is on yours, hot, insistent. You're fighting back for all of three seconds, and then you're sighing, curling your fingers into his hair and pulling him closer.

You surrender and he knows triumph.

* * *

><p>Important: I've posted this piece as a present and an update on myself for some of you readers who have contacted me about possible future updates. However, this particular style that I've utilized doesn't directly reference anything related to the fandom, and therefore, it is highly likely that I will be taking this piece down after some time. I may be posting it on other media as well (livejournal, tumblr). If so I will post a blank chapter to this piece before taking it down to notify you all.<p>

Merry Christmas and I hope you all had a wonderful, fun time spent with family, friends and loved ones. It has been my sincere pleasure in writing this for you all.

Thanks for reading!


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